The following is an excerpt from the erotic memoirs of Chad Swagger. Slated for a full release in 2017.
No Jack’n-It Required
Magic needed to happen on this night of all nights, I was in the midst of a dry spell; I hadn’t banged or fingerblasted a woman’s chick parts in…days. My daily lust was now flowing into my nights; I was on the verge of frenzy. My balls were as swole as my biceps, not good.
Tonight though, I’ve done the impossible. I have interacted with a human female, in public…outside of the gym. No Tinder, no POF, no heartbreak swipe after swipe. This was a rare phenomenon and I just had to document it. I texted all my Bro’s for advice, they gave it to me, straight. I was to bring this bar vixen back to my place; put on some Phil Collins, and let my dick sweet-talk her vajay into a wet-dream pool of desire and into slumber. Tonight, this woman didn’t care that I was an un-socialized Neanderthal, sweating through my red EXPRESS dress shirt on the dance floor, or that I was a horrible choice for a mate. Tonight, she was giving me the keys to the butt-house; for an all-inclusive one-night stay.
I needed this lay like I needed another protein shake—because fist-pumping on the dance floor burns a lot of cals, GET LEARNED. I needed this W, this win. I had been telling myself, for years, that the whole reason why I obsessively slave over my own body is so that girls would find me attractive. If I didn’t go out and use my body to get laid, then what was I really doing it for? To impress other Bro’s? No! I am a poon-hog, dawg! I am a goddamn pussy-shark, cunt wolf. I am a pussy predator. I just needed this lay to prove that I was not just an A-sexual meat-manikin.
To cut to the chase, me and this slightly vexing temptress were at a bar, I was shouting Bon Jovi lyrics to her face. At that moment in time, I was half way there…to her pussy. I could see it on her face, her desire for my meat-hammer to churn into her ground-beef patty. I quickly took her out of the bar, cave-man style, and we headed to an In-N-Out for a quick burger to set the mood for the nights future festivities. Class act. If you want to fill a chick’s pussy with your dick, you must first fill her belly with meat, so that the only hunger which remains inside of her is…for love.
As soon as we stepped through the door of my apartment, “One More Night” by my buddy Phil Collins was already serenading our ears—I had my roommate put the album “No Jacket Required” on repeat before leaving for the night. Bro’s always have each other’s back when it comes to slay’n puss. As we entered my foyer, I tore of my dress shirt and exposed the transitional wife-beater that lay beneath, hidden for the main event. Beaters are like male lingerie; you’re not just ripping your shirt off like some douchebag, you are humbly displaying your muscles with a fine garment named after people who abuse their wives. That’s it.
That night, I was a gracious host. Not only did I have good music playing (thanks Phil), I also cared to offer the chick even more food. However, she declined, mainly because all I had in the kitchen was protein powder and pre-made meals; which she can’t have anyways because that would’ve fucked up my whole meal plan. She wasn’t hungry anyway after the In-N-Out. I was though, like c’mon, I was out drink’n all night. I can’t go an hour without eating a full meal. So, as she sipped on the complimentary Natural Ice that I so graciously gave her, I whipped up a protein shake for myself.
Chicks don’t want to eat around guys anyway, they feel all weird about. I mean, they’ll stick your dick in their mouth, but they won’t have a couple crackers with you? Weird. Plus, whipping up a shake in front of her and saying, “Sorry, its meal time now, got to keep this body at peak level” is a real testament towards traits like ‘commitment,’ ‘ambition,’ and ‘strength’—which chicks dig. It shows her that you like to commit to things, stay motivated, and ultimately keep a shredded look for her to pine over while she pets herself to sleep at night— when you’re out of town…slay’n other pussy.
Now, after the protein shake, I began to hit the Danger Zone; where your buzz from the booze may start to slide. I needed to be in that drunken sweet-spot to where I don’t have whiskey-dick, but can last…maybe… 10 minutes. This is called: Cardio-Cock. All you really need, when it comes to sex, is about 10 minutes to make it count. So, I offered the lady another night-cap. We both were going to need it. Between the protein I had just guzzled down—like a starved guerrilla— and the fart I was trying to ignore, it was getting a little awkward in the kitchen. I knew in the back of my tiny mind that if she was a true civilian she would take the drink offer. I didn’t want this night to turn into an all-night pour your heart out, sexless marathon. I am never a soul-mate, coward.
Also, I understood that the longer I lingered the greater the danger was of summoning the Pussy Ork—my other roommate. The Pussy Ork can take many forms, but most likely it is another Bro who happens to be your roommate—who is also a meat-head. He will sense that there is a female present and emerge from his man-cave, in his boxers, shirtless. He will pretend that he has to “get something” from the kitchen, but don’t be fooled; he just wants to be the first shirtless beast that your female lays eyes on. I had this happen on many occasions. All I usually have to do is expose thy enemy’s feeble calves and vanquish the troll back towards his masturbation cave from whence he came.
I was thrown a curve ball, however; she didn’t want another drink. Turns out she was a fitness chick and didn’t want to screw up her prep; which lasts for like an eternity. So what did I do? Was I going to drink alone? You’re goddamn right, I did! So, I snaked into the bathroom and ripped a couple of shots of tequila, which turned into like…six. I didn’t realize how shit-faced I was until I looked myself in the mirror. However, I also realized how fucking aesthetic-looking I was, all thanks to my bathroom lighting design. Due to this realization, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity…to rip a couple of seflies for my Instagram.
Off of the high I got from taking some pretty dope selfies (I must say), I then did more shots. I had to be careful though, because I was approaching Whiskey-dick territory; and I was…because I didn’t even get a boner from my own reflection.
In a panic, the best thing I could do at that point was rip some pre-workout, and sober up to maximize blood-flow. Luckily, I had an emergency stash of Gnar Pump protein powder under the sink and quickly made a concoction using the spare plastic shake container (also found under the sink) using water. I also poured a bit more tequila into the mix, to balance it all out. After downing the ad-hoc shake, I pumped myself up in the mirror by saying, “Yeah Bro, were gunna fuck tonight…gunna fuck tonight…yeeaaa!”
Now, immediately after all of that, I had to rip a huge shit; because of all the protein, pre-workout, and tequila I had just chugged. It was a weird situation. It was of course DEAD quiet in the apartment (aside from Phil Collins lightly playing “Sussudio” in the background) and there was a chick, sitting alone, probably wondering what the fuck I was doing in the bathroom this whole time. Better yet, I was wondering what the fuck she was doing. So, I tried to be stealthy, and blasted it out… all at once; aka—the Champagne shit. I coughed as I did it, as to insure and muffle any obscene sounds emanating from my asshole. I never found out if she heard anything, but to me, it sounded as if I threw a cinder block into a kiddy pool.
At this point, me and this chick had been in my apartment for maybe….an hour. And by the grace of God, she was still there. I had just consumed a lot of pre-workout, tequila and vanity. I needed to lift something. So what did I do? I had to get consent, of course. I mean, if you knew me, you’d know that I embody the term “Forced”—there ain’t going to be no trial for me, Bro. Of course, my apartment ain’t the gym and I was not interacting with the weights…I was interacting with a female human being; who had emotions, dreams, aspirations, and above all else…a nice body which would be great to do some curls with. I’ve never asked the weights, “Hey, do you want to be lifted?” No, I just lift them. I wasn’t accustomed this kinda thing, but, it was time to be a man. She was losing interest, and more importantly, I was losing my Pump.
So, I cordially invited her to be penetrated. My thinking was, if she accepts my offer I would be able to then pick her up and carry her to the bedroom, and do some reps along the way. I was full of pre-workout and raging hormones, what was a dude to do? Well, I was careful. When we got to the bedroom I was thoughtful and mindful enough not launch her into the wall, vaporizing her upon impact. Instead, I lightly tossed her like would a small kitty cat. Thus, it was now time to pop-off the beater and reveal my extreme physique to this bar whore. She was definitely ready, from what I could tell, for the Bone Hammer. My confession is that, taking off my shirt is actually more satisfying to me… than nutting.
After the gun-show and the, “look at all the laundry you could do,” on my abs, comments, I of course waited until I had half-a-chub before I took my pants off and showed her my slicks. Now me, I normally don’t remove my pants; I just usually pull my dick out through the hole since that’s what its there for. However, tonight I wanted to go First-class for dis gal.
‘Twas time for some foreplay. So, I started off with some light fingerblasting. This provided me with some sick, forearm, bicep pump. At this time, I began to consider that I also needed a boner. She was occupied by my finger-fun, and I had a free hand. So, I took the time to jerk myself off; without getting too carried away. With my heart racing; being all jacked up from the pre-workout, whilst pounding away trying to get a pump with my jerking on, and getting so turned on by my other bicep, I didn’t want to bust early and squeak one off accidentally. But I did. I managed to fuck up my first set and bunt an in-field dribbler onto the carpet. Whatever, I went too hard on my first set. It was time for the Super-set, the one that counts the most. So what? I bunted the in-field dribbler and managed to get hard again. That’s a recovery, that’s a pro-baller. I wasn’t worried though; the chick had already sat there through 45 minutes of passionless finger-banging, and probably had a bruised uterus. She’s ready. I was ready.
The question then for me was, “Do I put a condom on?” Trick question. Condoms go against every meat-head principle I live by. A boner is a Pump. What, am I going to get a sick chest pump and throw a sweater on over it? Fuck no! But for all I knew, this very fine lady—that I met at a Señor Frog’s wet T-shirt contest— could’ve been a baby-hungry, fertile myrtle; thirsty for my muscle-rich DNA. So, I wrapped my hog up because I didn’t want to give away my elite genetics to some ditch chick.
I went straight for the missionary; it’s literally a push-up. I didn’t mess around, I hammered it home. I wasn’t built to last long. I am all about The Pump. I am not equipped for cardio; I stopped doing more than 8 reps, years ago. So, I did what I do best; maxed out until I passed out.